Many die every day fighting wars both inner and outer, for freedom–yes, for freedom–in a country meant to protect the freedoms of all individuals–in a “Christian” nation supposedly founded on equal rights for all. Transgender people like me fight to exist, to pee, to not have to justify and explain my right to simply live. Every solider that died for American wars fought to keep people like me safe.

We are not a threat to “American Christian values.” I am not a threat. There has still, to this day–ever been one recorded incident of a true trans person harming anyone in any public bathroom EVER, and yet dozens and dozens of politicians and “religious” people have been charged with sex crimes and no one is murdering them (not that we should, of course). We are not a threat to the radical feminists or to the radical, so-called, defenders of American values.

There is a wiki article that shows how the war on transgender people only gets worse and worse. These are people fighting wars and battles simply to exist in their own country. Of course, many have been murdered and were never reported. Many, many suicides happen every day and are not listed here. These are murders too. And the people inciting violence on them are responsible for their deaths—the pastors, politicians—the parents who kick their kids out of the house, the bullies who torment them—they are all responsible for killing the human beings just trying to fight the battle for their right to exist.

Notice how the numbers increase year by year. It is no coincidence that the more hate is spewed from so-called Christian leaders and politicians the more transpeople die–the more on the LBGTIQA spectrum die (yes, I know, and the media gives it all more attention and that accounts too for the increase in numbers).

While we remember the lives of those lost for our country–remember they died for people like me—that I may live with the same freedoms as you.

Don’t dishonor their memory by standing by and allowing another new civil rights battle and genocide to be waged on people like me on our watch. Don’t dishonor their memory by hating people like me and supporting those who would take away my freedoms or have people like me wiped from the face of the planet.

Transgender people like me and all other LGBTQIA people have never been a threat to “Christian” values. If those values were so strong, so rooted in the “true religion of God,” then no one should fear their ever being harmed. My rights do not invade yours. Your ability to marry whomever you choose is in no way effected by who I choose to marry. Prove how solid and true your values are and LIVE them. Jesus NEVER hated people like me and he would weep to know how many parents kick their children out of their houses, or bully them to suicide. Jesus would weep to know people like me are killed for simply being who we are—who “God” supposedly “made us to be.” Jesus would be appalled to see his name, his teachings used to spread needless and shameful hatred, violence, bigotry. If your truth was so strong it wouldn’t need defending from transpeople who just want to pee in a public restroom–who just want to LIVE in peace.

If you go to churches of any kind–temples, mosques, any type of religious body–advocate for us–for me. Write to politicians and tell them to wage war on the issues that matter—poverty, crime, homelessness, student debt, pollution, and so on.

Memorial Day.

Let’s not make any more memories of those killed in the line of duty–abroad–or here–here with people like me just trying to live our lives in peace–here in our families, in our towns, in our schools, in our sacred places of freedom.

Being assigned the wrong gender when I was born had three wonderful unforeseen consequences much later in life: my three sons. No matter how unsettled I was inside I loved being a dad. I sang Van Morrison songs to the kids when they were still in the womb. When they were born I placed them on my chest and sang them to sleep as I rocked them in the rocking chair. I prayed over them, blessed them, and wrote them songs. I took them on wagon rides and to play grounds and parks. When they were older I took them bug hunting, snake hunting, puppy hunting, and ice cream truck hunting. I remember one day chasing an ice cream truck around the neighborhood after school until we were able to get close enough to run after it. We went fishing. I dragged them to used bookstores. I taught them the love of nachos, Mr. Bean, and baseball. When we went to Michigan I bought them enough candy to last them on a drive to Idaho. I drew with them. I drew for them. I taught them guitar chords. I bought them guitars, drums, mandolins, trombones, keyboards, amps, and drums. Of course, these are things any mother could do. That isn’t my point. My point is I did those because I loved being a parent—a parent who thought they were a dad doing what they thought, at the time, were dad things. As it turns out, I did all these things as a mother—they were both motherly and fatherly.

I longed (and still do long) to be pregnant and carry a child. I am well aware that will never happen. I deeply wanted to breast feed a child. I am well aware that will never happen either. And while these are saddnesses I will carry always to one degree or another, I have accepted the facts. On the eve of my Mother’s Day, I find myself feeling strange, and in sort of a limbo. I did my usual texting to the kids today to remind them to get something for their mom—Mom Number One. I told them not to get me anything. Part of me wants them to always think and remember me as dad, and yet, speaking of facts, I am a mom—a mom who gave birth to herself while she was still parenting her own children. Mother and matter are related in their Latin roots. They mean source—the stuff of the world—the feminine force of things. I have been, without knowing it, motherly giver and the source of origin for many things in the lives of my children. Father, in Latin (Dutch, vader—now you know what the “Vader” means in Darth Vader.), means paternal and Supreme Being; I have not been a supreme being except for when they were infants and in my arms or in my care in the woods, or when they were young and I made up stories for them stories until they fell asleep. I have been paternal to my children. I have cared for them when they were sick. I have laid down with them when they had nightmares.

Being motherly and fatherly makes me a genderqueer parent. And as the physical symptoms/manifestations of being wrongly assigned male at birth are slowly kneaded and shaped into the female parts I have always wanted, the fatherly form will fade, yet the fatherly spirit will always remain. And as the physical form of my real gender identity is fashioned, the motherly spirit will grow. I am a two-spirit parent who has untied things that have always been, from the beginning of time, united.

On this Mother’s Day, I am grateful for my three children. I am grateful for my own mother. Many of my relatives believe she is turning over in her grave at her “Joey,” being a “Jennifer,” and these are difficult fears for me to shake. I want to believe she would be happy and only care if I was happy. She would be worried sick about my impending future—no doubt about that—she would be telling me of all the teaching jobs open in Michigan, but she would be happy I am happy. I am also grateful to Mandy—the one who physically carried the kids and gave birth to them. She has been, and is, a wonderful mom. And on this, my first Mother’s Day, I am grateful for me and this wild, miraculous journey I am on.

So Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mom’s Out there—no matter what gender you are or aren’t.

I weep in gratitude as I write these words. Many of you know the many challenges I am facing in my life right now all as a result of being transgender. And yet, despite these, and the near-constant struggles with dysphoria, I look in the mirror and am amazed—not at the beauty or how “feminine” I look—but that I am who I want to be. I am the person I was meant to be.

The soul looking out from my eyes is tender. She is also ferociously strong. As the years of living under the weight of an imposed masculinity, she rejoices in the freedom that is finally hers.

Today I see the wonder of who I am as a transgender woman. Imagine carrying within you the seeds of an entirely new person and then sprouting with every step. Imagine being a human, living egg, or a walking cocoon continuously unfurling and hatching as one moves through the world. Imagine being asleep all your life and then suddenly waking up to a reality that is both delicious and calming beyond compare. Imagine having amnesia all your life and not remembering who you really are until, one day, the scales fall, the fog lifts, and you remember—you are an angel, you are majestic, holy, noble—you are yourself as your soul remembers you to be.

Today I embrace the native tradition of being two-spirit. Today I embrace the wisdom thrumming through me and the insight and understanding I have of myself and of the world.

Yes, there are challenges. Yes, I am often raw with tears, and the changes I am in the midst of often feel paralyzing, but I am me—a transgender woman. And I loved. I know that. I know too, that I am love made manifest in a being emerging like a blossom in spring. Whatever lies ahead will be met by a soul living in her deepest truth. Whatever I have to face—I face it knowing I am myself.

I am myself in a way I have always wanted to be and could never dream possible. I am myself with a life and identity of authenticity that is helping change the world for the better. I am myself with an awareness of my spirit that is as profound as it is humbling. I am the ever unfolding rose. I am transgender, and this being transgender is my greatest gift.